The narrow gate of grace at length receives them,
When, long ere it be dark, with lusty knocks
They fight their way on to the money-box,
And like a starving crowd around a baker’s door,
For tickets as for bread they roar.
So wonder-working is the poet’s sway
O’er every heart—so may it work to-day!
Poet.
O mention not that motley throng to me,
Which only seen makes frighted genius pause;